


Places To Be

by Stonestrewn



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stonestrewn/pseuds/Stonestrewn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Iron Bull always comes back to his Chargers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Places To Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alliterate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliterate/gifts).



> This is a gift for Kit, most excellent pal who proofreads all my stories and laughs at all my shitty puns.

“Ser, I need to redress that wound,” Stitches says. 

He’s brought the bulging rucksack he carries in the field that contains all of his equipment even now that the Chargers are stationary, and his expression is set, not inviting argument. The Iron Bull sighs. 

“Can it wait? I haven’t even had a drink yet.”

 He sank down in his favorite seat no more than five minutes ago and only came back to Skyhold this afternoon. Lot of trekking this time around, across nothing but sand. His leg is making itself known more intently than usual, the pain pulsing harder and climbing higher. The shoulder wound, a clean slice through just flesh, is a lesser concern at the moment.    

 Stitches’ eyebrows furrow further.

 “I’d prefer to do it now,” he says. “Please, if you could move your chair away from the wall so I may reach....”

 The Iron Bull waggles an eyebrow at him, pats his own thigh. 

“How about you climb on here instead? That’d work even better. For both of us.”

 “Or you could move your chair.”

 “ _Or_ you could get on my lap.”

 “Ser.”

 “No need to be shy.”

 “ _Ser_.”

 With a groan the Iron Bull gets up, weight all on his right leg, and puts some space between the back of the chair and the wall. With a groan and a glare and a huff with crossed arms because, seriously, this is unnecessary and he’s only complying because he’s utterly and thoroughly healer-whipped. Stitches squirms in behind him, and soon the stinging in his shoulder turns up a few notches as the bandage is removed, stuck as it is to the wound, the half-congealed pus and blood. Stitches tut-tuts, dripping with contempt.  

 “Whoever did this is a right charlatan.”

 “Want me to pass along a formal complaint for you?” the Iron Bull says, and he’s grinning, can’t help it. “Hey, boss, my guy thinks you can’t hire for crap.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Stitches says with a scoff, discarding the used bandage into a bowl balanced on the armrest of the next chair over. “Just… next time, come see me as soon as you return. No dawdling, Ser. Are you listening?”

 “Yeah, yeah.”

 There's the plop of a bottle being uncorked and a second later the wound is set on fire. The Iron Bull doesn’t twitch, but he clutches the fabric of his pants.

 “Ah, fuck! A little warning?”

 “Apologies,” Stitches says unapologetically.

 He finishes up quickly after that and, admittedly, with minimal discomfort for the Iron Bull. He’d like to get a look at him working because seeing competence in action is always a treat, but if he turned his head he’d probably clock Stitches in the face with a horn. He shuts his eyes instead, relaxes into the sound of the tavern, music and chatter and clinking bottles. He’s tired. The leg persists. Hurting, no matter how used to it you are, is a drain of energy.

 “There.” Stitches, all done, makes his way back out, gathers up a few things and leaves. He’s back with clean hands and tools within a few minutes and goes straight for the rucksack, reaching in deep.

 “Now, I’ve prepared a few things for you,” he says, grabs the Iron Bull’s hand and places a dozen small packets into his palm. “Tell whoever sees to you to put this on before the bandage.” He brings out a net filled with poultices: “these are for during and directly after battle and, _please_ , external use only,” a couple of glass bottles, “in case of major blood loss,” a number of vials, “various antidotes,” and finally “extra analgesics in case the leg acts up and clean bandages because you never know how well supplied they’re going to be out there.”    

 The Iron Bull let’s him go on, watching with growing amusement. He’s had to add his other hand to hold all the supplies Stitches is heaping on him and even though his cupped hands could easily hold a full-grown nug, at this point they’re overflowing.

 “Stitches. You’re fussing.”

 “That’s my job.” He throws a glance at the clutter of items in the Iron Bull’s hands and falters. “...I’ll pack those up in a medical kit.”

 There are a lot of things the Iron Bull could say. “Calm your tourniquets“ or “you really think a few vints and a little sand in my boots would’ve been the end of me?” or “I read you, Stitches, you’re looking to assert duty of care because you don’t like me being gone this much and want to remind me who my real people are” or “you look hot when you’re worried.”

 In the end, he settles for: “What would I do without you?”

 “Fester and succumb to infection. How’s the leg?”

 “Eh. Been worse.”

 “Do you want something for the pain?”

 “Nah, I can handle it. I’ll let you know if that changes,” the Iron Bull says, and Stitches nods because this is the one area where he trusts him to know his own needs. “Know what would be helpful though? If you went and ordered as many drinks you think we could handle, added a few more, put it on my tab and came back here to knock them down with me.”   

 Stitches straightens, hoisting up the rucksack.

 “I’ll put this away and get right to it,” he says. Then he smiles, adding several gentle creases to his kind, weather-worn face. “It’s good to have you back, Ser.”

 --

 Next time the Iron Bull comes back to Skyhold he isn’t as tired and hurting as he’d like to be. It’s been days in the emerald graves with the boss, scaling hillsides. They all make it to the top, boss fiddles around with one of those weird astramajings or creepy-ass skulls, picks some embrium, goes back down, rinse and repeat. For a week. And that’s _it_.

 The Iron Bull isn’t one to question leadership and it’s not like talking shop with Cassandra or making bets with Varric on how long it takes for boss to spot the path and stop insisting on   climbing that rock wall is a bad time per se, but he didn’t join the inquisition to go on peaceful forest promenades. Not once did they run into something to kill.

 So he comes back to Skyhold with the pent up fighting that never was clogging his system, but when Krem immediately pulls him aside to tell him about the collapsed wall, it all turns into a sort of dejected annoyance.  

 “I’ll talk to Rocky,” he says.

 He finds the dwarf outside the tavern, on the stone bench on the sunny side, playing wicked grace with Dalish. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration - she’s always been crap at strategy games - and keeps giving Skinner her widest help-seeking doe-eyes. Skinner leans against the wall and studiously ignores her. They all look up as the Iron Bull approaches.  

 “Hey, guys,” he says, adding to Rocky: “Gotta have a word with you.”

 “One sec, chief, I’m about to wipe the courtyard with Dalish.”

 “ _Now_ , Rocky.”

 Skinner draws in breath with a low whistle. Rocky puts down his cards and gets up without further protest, adjusting his hood to hide the scowl. Wears his heart on his sleeve, that one. Even without ben-hassrath training the man is an open book; at least he’s aware of it. The Iron Bull pats him on the shoulder, as light and reassuring as he can make it, and gestures towards the requisitions tower. The upper dormitories should be empty this time of day.

 “I win this round! By default!” Dalish pipes after them. When the Iron Bull throws an amused glance back at her, he catches Skinner nodding in agreement.

 Once in the dormitories, as quiet and deserted as he expected them to be, the Iron Bull sits down on an uncomfortably small-seated chair and gestures to another one just opposite. When sitting on it, Rocky’s feet don’t reach the floor. Normally the Iron Bull would point it out and they’d both have a good time slamming humans and their ridiculous proportions, but now he sighs and says:

 “The testing stops.”

 “Chief, I-”

 “The testing. _Stops_.”

 Rocky slumps against the backrest, bends his neck so that he almost disappears entirely into the hood.

 “...Aye, chief.”

 This sulking little asshole. As if the Iron Bull enjoys having to keep his favorite people from the things they love the most.

 “Dammit, Rocky. This isn’t what I want to come back to.”

 “No one got hurt.”

 The Iron Bull sighs again, deeper, and rubs his chin.

 “Right.”

 “I’d never get anyone hurt,” Rocky insists. “I’m careful.”

“You are.”

 “It was an accident.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

 “You said to drop the blackpowder for a while, and I did. For a while. But I got this new idea, I was just going to try it out real quick and get it out of my head. Didn’t think it would actually work…. And no one’s ever around by the south walls anyway!”

 “Rocky,” the Iron Bull interrupts, because he’s working himself up into a spirited defense. “Who’re you trying to convince here? Me? ‘Cause I know my guy’s solid, that’s not what this is about.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Come on, you think I hire people with a civilian casualty count?”

 “You hired Skinner.”

 “...Don’t change the subject.”

 The Iron Bull drags his hands down his face.

 “Okay,” he says, “Listen. What I’m telling you is we’re trying to be useful here. Blowing holes in the walls? Not useful. I get it, you’re antsy sitting around on your ass waiting for shit to happen but you have to find some other outlets. Something that doesn’t explode.”

 Rocky lifts his head a little, peers up at him from under the hood.

 “I guess you’d know a thing or two about outlets.”

 “Wrote the book,” the Iron Bull says, and Rocky laughs.

 “That’s something I’d like to see,” he says. “You writing a book.”

 “Hey.” The Iron Bull crosses his arms, defensive. “I can swing a pen if there’s a need for it, but I _prefer_ to swing a sword. Cuts right to the point.”

 “Whatever you say, chief,” Rocky says.

 He still has a chuckle bubbling in his voice and the Iron Bull sharpens his gaze into a point, enough to sober Rocky up but not so piercing it drives him back to the sulking place, hopefully.   

 “Anyway. The testing?”

 “Stops.”

 “Good man.”

 Silence settles itchily for a few moments, until Rocky points his thumb towards the door.

 “So, uh. Can I go?” he says, and the Iron Bull throws out his arms in shocked response.

 “Whoa, just like that? No play-by-play of shit going boom? No waving your hands around explaining why the shit goes boom?”

 “You really want to-?”

 “Always.”

 Rocky’s grin spreads while he talks, until it’s almost impossibly wide.

 

 --

 

 He’s getting ready - they’re setting out next morning at dawn. Not a lengthy task, because how much do you even need? Sword, pants, harness. Extra daggers, coin purse in a pocket. Stitches’ medical kit tied in a bundle to his belt because he’s not eager to pick that particular fight.  

 Skinner slips into the room without knocking, just a creaking at the door.

 “You know,” the Iron Bull says, “one of these days you’ll sneak in here and I won’t be decent.”

 “I wont care.”

 “Maybe it’s what you’re hoping for.” He waggles a brow.

 “Maybe I don’t care.”

 She climbs onto the bed, plopping her butt down on his pillow and crossing her legs.

 “You’ll fluff that before you leave,” the Iron Bull grumbles. “So what’s up?”

 “Nothing.”

 “Really.”

 “Mm.”

 The Iron Bull shrugs and goes back to getting his stuff in order under the scrutiny of Skinner’s brown eyes. Soft color, hard stare. All quiet because she’s trying to be unnerving. He’s sure it makes the nobles cluttering up Skyhold poop their pants, but it takes more than one elf with an attitude problem to get him ill at ease.

 “Krem made you a road snack,” she says at last, when it’s clear he won’t give in to asking further. “He told me to give it to you.”

 “Hah! That’s my dude.” The Iron Bull rubs his hands together. Krem makes snack bags for them sometimes because traveling gives you the munchies something fierce. Just these little things of dried fruits and nuts or grains, cookie crumbs if you’re lucky and it’s on hand. It’s not a habit, just a sometimes thing. And somehow, despite the humble ingredients, they’re the tastiest treats in the world. No one knows how the guy does it. There’s been a lot of blood magic vint jokes over the years. “Hand over the goods.”

 “Ate it.”

 “What?!”

 “I ate your snack on the way.”

 “Oh, I heard you. I just can’t _believe_ -”

 The last of the sentence dissolves into a mutter. He looks down at her where she sits on his bed as if she owned the piece of furniture, and she doesn’t even blink.

 “What kind?”

 “Dried apples and walnuts.”

 “That’s my favorite,” he groans. “Damn you, Skinner.”

 “He hasn’t made _me_ snacks in months.”

 “You go out and save the world from glowy demon crap running amok and I’m sure you’ll get some.”

 Skinner scrunches her face up and spits on the floor.

 “Come _on_! Sure you don’t want to take a piss on the nightstand while you’re at it?”

 “I don’t have to go.”

 “She doesn’t have to go. Isn’t that just fucking dandy.”

 The gob of spit gleams in the candlelight. The Iron Bull thinks of what the qun says about disrespecting your commander this blatantly, and is glad he gets to decide when he’s less commander, more friend.  

 “Seriously, Skins,” he says. “What’s wrong?”

 “Nothing!”

 “Uh-huh. That’s why you spit on my floor and eat my food.”

 Skinner shrugs like she’s shaking snow from her hair and clothes.

 “If you come back, Krem will make another snack.”

 She says ‘if’, not ‘when’, and judging from the way she curls her toes up against her soles, it wasn’t intentional. So that explains some things.

 The Iron Bull sits down on the bed, too, not so close that they touch but not so far away that the dip in the mattress doesn’t cause her feet to slide a little. He tries to catch her eye.  

 “I always come back to my Chargers.”

 Skinner looks everywhere but him, gaze darting from the ceiling to the left wall to the foot of the bed to the drawers. It’s a minute or two before it rests on the Iron Bull again, but then it’s steady.

 “What will you be killing?” she asks, not “where are you going” or “how long until you get back,” because that wouldn’t be Skinner.

 “Well, we’re off to the plains.”

 “Shems, then.”

 “Expecting some demons, too, but yes. Lots of Orlesians running around those parts. Good news for you, eh?”

 She nods, a languid sort of satisfaction to the movement.

 “Say hello to their guts for me.”

 “I’ll make sure to give your love to as many intestines as possible.”

 “Mm,” Skinner says. The smile perches carefully yet comfortably on her face like a crow on a clothesline.

 --

 The boss wants to swing by Val Royeaux on the way back, so swing by Val Royeaux they do. No trouble waiting for them in the plazas, just shopping. Boss spends a good two hours trying on new armor in a small boutique while Sera naps in a corner and Blackwall replies to every request for his opinion with a noncommittal ‘looks nice.’ The Iron Bull presents what he thinks is a very convincing argument for a dawnstone chest plate but in the end Boss goes for some anonymous looking everite instead. Go figure.

 While Boss haggles for a price, the rest of them wander off for a bit. There’s a bakery next door, real fancy place, elaborate tiered cakes rising like spires in the windows alongside flower arrangements and fake butterflies on sticks. The Iron Bull enters.

 The crisply uniformed youth behind the counter stares with eyes wide as saucers for a few seconds but collects themselves admirably and is amenable to describing every single pastry in the shop. Their accent is thick and leads to confusion a couple times, but in the end the Iron Bull walks out with a paper-lace trimmed box containing bright pink pastries and a bag of tiny chocolate cookies shaped like stars.       

 The cookies are gone by the time they reach Skyhold - he gets peckish, okay, and _someone_ ate his apple snack - but the box still holds seven glazed cakes. One for each Charger, one for their commander.

 The Iron Bull is crossing the courtyard, balancing the box on five fingers and shading his eyes with the hand that only has three still un-maimed. He spots Grim by the north wall, doing drills alone by the training dummies. A moment of consideration, and then the Iron Bull steers his steps in his direction. The plan was to get all his guys together, but it’s been a while since he’s had Grim to himself.

 “Going pretty hard, there,” the Iron Bull says as soon as he’s within earshot. “Fancy a break?”

 He holds the box up. It’s only a little bit dented from the trip. Grim wipes the sweat from his brow and nods. The Iron Bull grins and makes for the benches beneath the tree by the smithy, but Grim stops him with a hand on his bicep and points to the battlements.

 “Like I haven’t just walked across half the world,” the Iron Bull says once they’ve climbed the stairs, but there’s no conviction in the complaint. “Nice view, though.”

 Grim grunts in agreement.

 They sit on the roof of the building that houses the requisitions office and dormitories, sharing the same stack of planks. The wind isn’t too biting here, they’re sheltered by the northwestern tower and warmed by the sun.

 “All right!” The Iron Bull puts the box on his knee. “Got us something good here.”

 Grim leans over the box as the Iron Bull unties the ribbon holding it shut and flips the lid open. The pastries are more or less flawless, the pink standing out nicely against the white cardboard. The grunt Grim gives him is amused.

 “Only the best and prettiest for my guys,” the Iron Bull says with some emphasis. He makes to pick one up, hesitates. The glaze shines wetly, gone soft and sticky. “Ah, crap. Should’ve brought forks or something. And plates.”

 This time Grim’s grunt is impatient. Without ceremony he reaches into the box and picks up the closest pastry. His fingertips leaves indentations in the glaze, but the shape is basically intact.

 “You’ve no finesse, man,” the Iron Bull says.

 But he holds out his own hand and Grim places another pastry on his palm before shutting the lid over the remaining ones.  

 They’re good. They’re _very_ good. Underneath the sugary glaze is a rum-soaked cookie crumb center between juicy layers of some sort of sponge cake. The liquor taste is strong, curls pleasurably on the tongue. The Iron Bull has finished his in two bites.

 “That’s the stuff,” he sighs, looking to Grim for agreement and finding he still has more than half of his left. He eats in small bites, savoring each tiny mouthful. It makes the Iron Bull smile. “Better than you thought, huh?”

 Grim grunts and takes another peck.

 The Iron Bull takes the box off his lap to stretch out his legs. They’re fewer these days, the quiet moments with his people. Watching Grim going at the training dummy and seeing the opening he left to his right made the Iron Bull think he’d get them all together for some heavy drilling in the afternoon but now he’s thinking maybe he can leave it for tomorrow morning instead. He’ll ride them twice as hard, he decides, and relaxes further in his seat.

 Grim is still nibbling slowly away like an overgrown, particularly stubbly rodent.

 “So,” the Iron Bull says. “You gonna finish that?”

 The smile Grim gives him is wry, one corner of his mouth curving down. His fingers curl protectively around the pastry.

 --

 He’s gone three weeks. Three weeks - the Iron Bull hasn’t been away from the Chargers that long since… Since founding them, probably.

 Admittedly, the time flies past. Lots of good fights to be had in the Emprise, and that’s without taking the dragons into consideration. The three dragons. _Three dragons_. The weeks pass in a bloody haze of excitement and arousal and it isn’t until he’s back at Skyhold that he realizes how long it’s really been.  

 The Chargers throw him a welcome back booze binge. Roll a couple of casks out of the inquisitor’s own cellars in complete insubordination and without authorization from their commander.

 The Iron Bull greatly approves.

 Dalish drinks like she forgot about being an elf, downing one pint after the other in great gulps. She burps daintily, clinging to his arm.

 “And then!” she says, “Then Krem said-” She frowns, lips moving silently in search of the words. “...I forgot. But it was funny!”

 “Funny? Krem? Can’t be right,” the Iron Bull says, handing his pint to Stitches for a refill. “That guy has no sense of humor.”

 “Just ‘cause I don’t laugh at your shitty puns,” Krem shoots from across the table, grinning.

 Dalish reaches up and grabs hold of one of the Iron Bull’s horns, pulling his attention back on her.

 “I also must to tell you what happened to Grim. He sparred with Seeker Pentaghast!”

 “No way.”

 “It’s true!”

 “But he’s still alive.”

 “You should have seen him after, Ser,” Stitches says. ”The bruises were… quite something.”

 “Didn’t think he’d make it, I was sketching up new recruitment posters,” Krem says. “But Grim enjoyed it.” He nudges Grim’s shoulder. “Right?”

 Grim smirks into his west hill brandy. The Iron Bull laughs and thumps him on the back.

 “Yeah, she’s a knock-out,” he says and laughs harder when Krem groans. “So how’d that showdown come about?”

 “Far as I know it started in the smithy. Swords getting mixed up,” Krem says, but is interrupted when Dalish slams her hands on the table, knocking over her pint into her own lap.

 “Pardon me!” she yells. “ _I’m_ telling the story. You’re listening to _me_!” she adds to the Iron Bull and fumbles for his ear. It takes her a few attempts before she manages to latch on, nails scraping. The Iron Bull winces but doesn’t detach her.

 “All right, Dalish, you got my ear. Literally.”

 But Dalish isn’t looking at him any longer. She stares in confusion at her brandy stained pants.

 “How did this happen?” she asks, utterly bewildered. Then she yawns like she’s trying to swallow her own head.

 Skinner puts the half-empty pint out of the other elf’s reach.

 “She’s had enough. Take her to bed before she gets weepy.”

 “I am not weepy-sleepy and I would like to drink some more, thank you!” Dalish protests. Skinner ignores her.

 “I’m serious,” she says, glaring at the men. “Remember last time.”

 Last time ended with an inconsolable Dalish crying because she was ‘out of arrows’ and trying to set their shoes on fire ’to end the oppression of their feet ’. Maybe it’s better if that doesn’t repeat.

 “Shouldn’t she be _your_ responsibility?” Rocky says.

 “No.”

 “That’s cold, Skinner.”

 “I’m her girlfriend, not her mother.”

 “She would be an awful mom,” Dalish agrees. She pats the Iron Bull on the cheek. “You are a much better mother, Ser.”

 The Iron Bull sighs.

 “It’s gonna be on me, isn’t it.”

 No one argues with this, so he gently tears his ear from Dalish’s grip and scoops her up in his arms bridal-style. She squirms, arms and legs flailing.

 “No! You- You scoundrel!”

 “Hey, hey. This is a fantasy for a lot of people.” He winks down at her - and it _is_ a wink even with one eye, Krem’s wrong. “Look into your libido. Deep down there’s a part of you that wants this.”

 Dalish giggles, a throaty, hiccuping thing. She goes still and flutters her lashes. “Oh, my, Ser. You do look very handsome from this angle.”

 “Have I ever told you you’re my favorite?”

 “The chief’s a cheap one, Dalish” Krem calls after them. “You can do better!”

 “She is,” Skinner says, and the two of them drink to that.

 The Iron Bull lets team asshole get the last word and exits the tavern with his armful of elf. It’s cold out, the frost will fall before morning, but after the sweaty heat from inside the chill is refreshing.   

 “I wanted to tell you about Grim and the seeker,” Dalish whines.

 “Tell me tomorrow. How’s that?”

 “Terrible! It is not what I want, I want you to have been there when it happened. You miss too much, Ser. It makes me sad.”

 “Aw, don’t get weepy on me now, you were doing so well.”

 “But it makes me _sad_ ,” Dalish says and, yeah. Yeah, he’s not happy for the stuff he’s missing either, the jokes that fly over his horns or the references he needs to have explained, but he doesn’t want to dwell on that right now. He wants to tuck Dalish into bed, go back to the rest of his guys, get eight times more wasted and sit and soak in their voices, their laughter, the reassuring warmth of their bodies until they pass out together.

 “So how’re you and Skinner? Good?” he asks to get her on a happier track, and Dalish makes a small sound like a lovesick nug.

 “She is so pretty. Her nipples are so pretty. I think they are the prettiest ones in the world.” She gasps, one hand before her mouth in exaggerated mortification. “Beside yours, of course!”

 “Of course.”

 Dalish’s aim is wobbly, but after some maneuvering she manages to put the tip of her index finger on the Iron Bull’s right nipple.

 “Boop,” she says, and then she laughs like she’s about to burst.

 She falls asleep still smiling, snoring before her head hits the pillow.

 --

 The next time he returns the Chargers aren’t around.

 “Lieutenant Aclassi and the Chargers have kindly volunteered their services in disrupting the attempts of a few members of the Orlesian nobility to employ their own armed forces and take advantage of the current political situation. They set out last night,” Josephine tells him, scribbling away even as she speaks, and, right. That’s right. The guys have done work for the inquisition without the Iron Bull before, he’s encouraged Krem to take initiative, just not realized their respective missions might not always overlap perfectly. Or, he’d realized, just not- But naturally, it’s fine. It’s fine.

 He lets most of the morning pass him by. Spends a long time cleaning his sword, inspecting the edge, strolling down to the undercroft to see if the boss got any upgrades for him and gets a thorough demonstration of some new rune by that cute little redhead who seems to spend her days just waiting for a chance to talk someone’s ears off. Not that he minds. Enthusiasm is sexy and if he thought she’d be open to it, he might make a proposition or two. As it is, he doesn’t bother. The Iron Bull can usually tell when a girl prefers a woman’s touch.

 His stomach starts rumbling around noon so he orders the daily at the tavern: smoked herring and a thick pea stew, moderately enticing. A little back and forth flirting with the friendly guy manning the kitchen and in addition the Iron Bull can walk off with an extra serving of bread, some pickled eggs and a few crumbly cookies stuffed with walnuts and dried apples. His favorite.

 He eats slowly, soaks up every last trace of stew with the bread and savors the cookies one bite at a time, licking powdered sugar off his fingertips. After, he washes more out of his beard in the water basin outside, just in case the ma’am decides to descend from her balcony and they bump into each other. That woman wields disapproval like a harpoon; she could skewer a seadragon with it.

 Cassandra nods at him from across the courtyard and he recognizes it for the invitation it is. The Iron Bull loses yet another sparring match, but from where she’s beaten him to the ground he praises what her stance does to the curve of her ass and gets one of those slanted smirks that set her eyes gleaming, so the defeat doesn’t feel too crushing.  

 After dinner he gets roped into a game of wicked grace with Varric, Dorian and the kid. Varric and Cole play as a team and win even though Cole keeps telling everyone their hand. The Iron Bull comes in second, if only because Dorian’s focus slackens along with his jaw every time he flexes his pecs.

 Opting out of the rematch, he leaves for his room to write up the ben-hassrath report he’s been putting off for a while, but not before offering Dorian to cop a feel first. Mageboy flushes a couple shades darker as he sputters a refusal, though the Iron Bull’s pretty sure he’d gone along with it if Varric hadn’t been sitting there wearing that shit-eating grin. He’ll have to remember to make the offer in private at some point.

 He snuffs out the candle around midnight, falls asleep without having to wait for it. It’s been a good day by any account, a calm day, a restful day with no complaints, a proper landing. The days that follow are the same, and yet. When the boss tells him they’re hitting the road again he feels still dusty, still dull, still heavy-footed and vaguely sore, like he never touched down at all.

 --

 The night is overcast - no moon, no stars. Skyhold crouches on top of the mountain like an ancient beast, the contours of its hulking mass indistinct in the dark. The drawbridge pulls down like a tongue for them as they arrive. Once they’ve dragged their exhausted bodies across boss says a quick goodbye and heads off to bed, Solas and Cassandra do the same, but the Iron Bull steers his steps into the labyrinth of tents in the lower courtyard.  

 Most of the inquisition forces stay out here, the rooms in the castle towers reserved for the inner circle and those with more official titles, as well as visiting dignitaries and other noble rabble. The camp is getting pretty sprawling, but the Iron Bull knows which turns to take to get to the little enclave the Chargers have claimed for themselves. Due to their association with him they could all probably get fancier accomodations a little higher up, Krem’s rank could even get him his own room, but the Bull’s Chargers stick together and they like to keep their feet firmly on the muddy ground.

 A few torches mark his path. He nods at the patrolling soldiers he passes by - they salute him in return. Krem’s tent sits in a pool of light, right by one of the flickering torches. The Iron Bull kneels down in front and opens the flap.    

 As soon as he sticks his head inside, Krem stirs in his bedroll. He shoots up with a hand reaching for his weapon, immediately on the alert, but after registering the Iron Bull’s silhouette his posture relaxes.

 “Chief,” he says. “Is it morning?”

 “Not for a while.”

 “Okay.” Krem falls back heavily on the pillow. “Welcome back, great to see you, good night.”

 “Nuh-uh, Krem.” The Iron Bull grabs one of his feet and shakes it. “Krem, listen. Guess what I did.”

 “You hit something.”

 “Guess  _better_.”

 “You hit your head on something.”

 “You’re not taking this seriously at all.”

 “I’m asleep.”

 “Hah. You wish.”

 “I do.” Krem rubs his eyes. “Just tell me, chief. I’m listening, I swear.”

 The Iron Bull bares his teeth and puffs up his chest and lets the pause get pregnant enough to carry quadruplets before he says:

 “I killed an abyssal high dragon.”

 This doesn’t get him the awed response that should be rightfully his.

 “Abyssal? What, does it live in a hole?”

 “I- Huh?! Who cares where it lives? What matters is where it died, and who killed it.”

 Krem nods solemnly.

 “The Inquisitor.”

 “It was a team effort, _Krem_.”

 “Nicely done.” This is sincerely meant, the Iron Bull can tell. “How many is it so far?”

 “Six. I love this job.” He scoots a little further into the tent, taking some of the weight off his left leg. Kneeling like this is starting to put an edge to the pain. “Have I told you that according to some, we qunari have a little dragon in us?”

 “Only a hundred times,” Krem says. “Hope that wasn’t one of your uncles you offed back there. I mean, you did check, right?”

 You don’t have uncles under the qun but bringing that up to Lieutenant Acl- _ass_ -i is going to open his bottomless reserve of digs at anything qunari.

 “Very funny,” the Iron Bull says. Let the jerkhole have his joke. This kill isn’t the kind where the triumphant sheen can get dulled by a smart-ass comment.

 The tent isn’t very dark inside. Light from the torch outside seeps through the walls, taking on the color of the tarp and bathing everything in a warm, reddish glow. Dim, putting a fuzzy filter over everything, but he can make out Krem’s face easily enough, the drowsy half-smile he wears.  

 The Iron Bull thinks about climbing the steps to his room, the not yet fixed hole in the roof and the feel of cold sheets. There’s no more room in the bedroll here, but the ground is covered with tarp as well and Krem’s bodyheat has made his tent downright toasty. It’s not a hard decision to make.

 When he starts squirming inside, minding the horns and arranging his bulk carefully so as not to to lie down on anything breakable such as a limb, Krem sighs.

 “You’ve got your own room, you know. Your own bed.”

 “My bed’s empty.”

 “Your bed’s built to actually fit your giant ass,” Krem says, but he doesn’t protest when the Iron Bull takes his pillow for himself, content with resting his head on the offered arm instead.

 Finally, the Iron Bull lies stretched out between Krem and his maul - because apparently the bond between a man and his giant rock on a small tree is strong enough that they refuse to be apart even in dreams. He has to rest one leg on the maul-head to fit, but that’s working out very well pain-wise so now he’s more comfortable than he expected to be when he undertook the venture.

 “I’ll only leave if I get a pretty please.”

 “You can get a pretty bite me.”

 “Now that’s an idea,” the Iron Bull rumbles.

 He presses closer, scraping his teeth against the other man’s temple, but Krem puts a hand on his chin and pushes him firmly away.

 “Not tonight. Have to be up at first light, I’m overseeing some of the new recruits doing drills or whatever.”

 “Oh, yeah?”

 Krem’s expression is a little hard to read in the dimness, either sheepish or insecure or annoyed, or all three. Like someone getting caught wearing overly fancy boots a size too big for his feet. He scratches his nose, shrugs.

 “Had a moment of weakness, made a promise.”

 “Hey, don’t say it like that, I like the initiative.”

 “So long as it doesn’t turn into some kinda official commitment.”

 “If it did, you’d live up to the role, no doubt. We work for the Inquisition now. What it needs us to be, that’s what we are.”

 Krem tilts his face up to look the Iron Bull in the eye, serious.

 “I work for you, first.”

 “Yeah. That you do.” The Iron Bull looks back down at Krem. There’s a little bit of drool crusted in the corners of his mouth and his hair is a tousled mess pointing in all directions. The Iron Bull doesn’t even consider resisting the impulse to ruffle it. “It’s been a while, huh?”

 “Sorry we weren’t around when you came back. I saw an opportunity, thought we should take it… Didn’t know it’d keep us away that long. Should’ve checked with you first.”

 “Nah. If something looks doable, I want you to step up. Don’t worry about me and don’t wait around for my orders,” the Iron Bull says. “That’s an order, by the way.”

 Krem chuckles.

 “Understood.”

 Still threading his fingers through Krem’s hair, the Iron Bull finds a large bump by the border to the shaved side of his head, bruised a nasty color. Gently, he runs his thumb over it, barely brushing the skin.

 “This must’ve hurt.”

 “Got ambushed on the way back. Not as bad as it looks,” Krem says, and then he scoffs. “Still, Stitches had me lie down for a whole day. Waste of time.”

 “Head injuries aren’t to play around with.”

 “You’d complain your tits off if it was you.”

 “It’s different. Human skulls are these thin, brittle, smashable, puny-”

 “All right, all right. I get it.”

 “Good.”

 Krem’s giving him a once-over, too. Less handsy, just his eyes scanning for anything that’s changed, any injuries worth a comment. His gaze lingers on a cut on his forehead, and the Iron Bull grins.

 “Think you’ll like the new scar?”

 “Yeah,” Krem says, and then his lips curve up and his expression turns devious. “One day your mug’s gonna be all scar tissue. With that improvement we’ll be able to look at you in broad daylight without getting queasy.”

 The Iron Bull pinches his ear.

 “You,” he says, “are not a nice man.”

 But he’s smiling, because Krem’s smiling: wide and easy, putting creases around his eyes and lines on his cheeks, unrestrained, showing teeth.

 In the morning the Iron Bull will wake up to a welcome from the rest of his guys, have Stitches frown over his wounds, Grim and Rocky hogging the seats closest to him, Dalish chirping in his ear with a sullen Skinner always by her side. He’ll regale them with tales of his exploits, suffer their friendly mockery and bask in their trust, in their loyalty, in the way his presence makes them light up and how that light catches in his chest, how their shine reflects back on him and makes his image clearer, his form a solid one. He’s already looking forward to it.   

 “Get some shut-eye,” he says to Krem, who yawns.

 “Aye, chief.”

 He lies awake for a while after Krem’s fallen asleep, listening to his breathing and the muffled sounds of Skyhold slowly stirring to life outside. He’ll be be leaving again soon - places to go, people to kill - but for now, the Iron Bull is back with his Chargers.

 It’s a good place to be.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The dragon uncle joke I borrowed from Kit. Yes, I will put your own joke into your gift fic, I am a right charlatan (I asked permission first). 
> 
> Also, I have obviously rebuilt Skyhold a little for my own purposes: the area where the surgeon hangs out is now a camp. I always wonder where all these supposed forces and refugees actually LIVE. A larger courtyard with a camp is what I decided on, let's pretend together.


End file.
